


crack me open, feel me shatter

by rattatatosk



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Asexual Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Asexual Relationship, Body Horror, Crowley Needs a Hug (Good Omens), Crowley Was Not Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), Crowley's Fall (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Night Terrors, Nightmares, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), True Forms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:14:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23192233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rattatatosk/pseuds/rattatatosk
Summary: Crowley dreams of the Fall. Aziraphale is there to catch him when he wakes.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 196
Collections: Aspec-friendly Good Omens





	crack me open, feel me shatter

It starts with his stars.

He's working on a nebula, smearing the gas and dust across the firmament, whorls of it drifting around his feathers and his feet, fingers sticky with glittering stardust. He sings to them, as he works-- the stars and the spots that will become stars someday, and they sing back; the tiny chimes resonating within him as he spins atoms and knits quarks, pushing them together and pulling them apart, watching the reactions ripple out around him.

He laughs with the joy of it, the energy of creation bright in his veins, filled to the brim with the satisfaction of doing the task he was made for.

But then--

Something _shifts_ , and he twists around, arms windmilling as he tries to find his balance on footing suddenly gone uncertain. He can't find it, the steady foundation crumbling away beneath him like sand, and with a start he realizes the star-songs have gone silent as well. The chorus of soft, gentle chimes has simply _disappeared_.

Confused, he reaches out, seeking the greater song, the Word at the center of the universe. Her Voice. It threads through everything, and its steady, unfaltering presence always offers warmth and reassurance.

It isn't there, either.

Something sharp lances through his chest, a cold, hard feeling he can't name, and he casts out again and again. He can't-- he can't  _hear_ Her. Can't  _feel_ Her. He's never been unable to find her. She  _must_ be here, She  _must--_

Something else shifts, then, and he's-- he's--

Falling, that's what he'd learn it was called, later. Much later. But at the time all he knows is movement, trajectory, velocity, and the firmament won't _hold_ him. How can it not hold him? He's always been able to move in any direction he pleased. There are no fixed points of reference, no up or down or sideways. But now he's caught, pulled in one direction and one direction only by some inexorable force. He thinks, absently, that perhaps this is what it feels like to be trapped in the gravity well of a black hole, if a force like gravity could apply to him.

The force grows stronger, the movement faster, and he throws his wings out, beating hard, desperate to escape its pull. Nothing he does makes any difference. No matter how wide he spreads his wings, how frantically he flaps, his movement is not slowed. If anything, it seems to be speeding _up_.

Heat builds around him, a soft glow that quickly erupts into a corona of fire, engulfing him. He smells his feathers start to sizzle, and he opens his mouth to scream, only to have his throat fill with magma as the core of him bursts into flame.

His Grace, the shining bright heart of him, the piece of Herself that she placed in him, the thing that defines him—it's _burning._ The pain of it consumes him, so inescapable he can't even scream. All he can do is writhe, sobbing, overcome by hopeless confusion and desperate longing. He reaches out to Her, still, begging for relief. _I don't understand. What's happening? What did I do? It hurts. Please, it hurts. Help me! Make it stop!_

He falls for an age, an eon, an eternity. And all the while, he burns.

And then-- the landing.

The impact shudders through him, for all that he's been melted down; a formless, writhing mass of fear and suffering. The space around him is thick, viscous; a sticky ooze of heat that seeps into the spaces between what used to be feathers and clings to him even as he thrashes, seeking the surface, desperately searching for any possible relief. The stench is strong enough that it's almost solid, and it hits him harder that it should, burning in his nose and throat until he can taste it. Worse than that, though, is the assault on his emotions. His pain and bewildered terror seem to extend beyond himself, tangled up and amplified by the fear and hurt and anger of those around him, until all of them are practically vibrating, a seething morass of negative emotions.

He struggles against it, trying to get away, trying to separate _himself_ from the shared horror of millions, but he stops as he realizes he doesn't even know who _himself_ is. His name-- he'd had a name, hadn't he? He must have. Something to distinguish between _me_ and _them._ If he did, though, he can't grasp it; the memory a jagged shard that only cuts him when he touches it. He tries to move, tries to conjure up a shape, but that, too, is beyond him. He can't seem to recall, now, the shape he was, before the burning and the fear and the dark. He flails, wildly, bits and pieces of him briefly holding a shape-- an eye, a wing, a coil of scales-- before dissolving again into formless chaos. 

He sobs, then, a soft, keening cry of sheer hopelessness. He doesn't know where he is, what has happened. Everything  _hurts_ , and he just wants it to  _stop_ .

He reaches out again, seeking something, some foundation on which to steady himself. With desperate, thrashing limbs he finds it-- the barest piece of rock on a shore of liquid fire. Fumbling with too many limbs in too many shapes, he hauls himself up, panting with fear and pain. He looks around, needing to hide, to find somewhere safe to gather himself, to find some piece of silence and calm.

Then something grabs him.

There's a flash of movement, and then a wave of energy-- a light,  brilliant,  burning, blinding, and all his senses scream  _DANGER!_ He flinches back, scrambling on uncertain, half-formed limbs. He doesn't know what this is, can't understand much of anything, but the pieces of his broken heart sing one word he knows, and it is  _enemy._

He flees.

He doesn't get far before he's caught by something; loose folds coiling around his limbs, ensnaring him. It slows him down, and he thrashes wildly, trying to escape. The thing catches up with him, then, grasping at all of his too-many limbs, pinning him down, trapping him. He writhes, choking on terror. There's a noise in the air, and it takes too long for him to realize it's his own voice. He's trying to talk, to plead maybe, pouring apologies out in between whimpers. He begs for help, for mercy, for who knows what, but the sounds won't come out right, words turning to razor-edged shards that slice his tongue to ribbons.

The thing is shaking him now, holding him tighter, leaning in close. The dazzling light of it burns him, dozens of golden eyes seared by it, and he closes them with a whine. In the darkness his mind conjures the image of a sword at his throat, tongues of fire licking at his skin. Pushing at the ground with clawed feet and scaled coils, he scrabbles for any distance, only to meet a hard barrier at his back. There's nowhere left to go.

He  _howls_ , furious and terrified, and lashes out with sharp claws that hadn't been there a moment ago, long fangs dripping venom in his mouth.

The enemy yelps, and their hold disappears.

He scrambles to the side, past the enemy, the whole of his being vibrating with one thought and one thought only: _escape_.

His form is uncertain again, claws and coils fading in and out of existence from moment to moment, but all of him bladed, sharp, dangerous.

As he runs, he notes, distantly, that something feels _different_ about his surroundings. It is dark, and cooler now. There is no fire, no scent of brimstone and misery. The ground is soft under his limbs, no longer stone but something smoother, that gives beneath his claws.

There's no time to process these details, though. His mind is a roil of incoherent terror, an unstoppable force of sheer animal panic. He flees through a series of twists and turns, stumbling into more barriers, spurred ever onward until, abruptly, he collides with something that knocks him flat on his back.

It's only as he lays there, momentarily dazed, that he starts to register the little details he'd taken in before.

It's dark, but it's not the absolute darkness of Hell--a heavy shroud of black laced with rot and decay. No, this is a soft darkness, the deep blue of atmosphere and sun's shadow. The air is cool, and free of any hint of smoke or fire. It smells clean; a damp, earthy scent, and he recognizes it as he rolls over, feels the prickle of grass brushing his skin. Dew soaks into his clothes, his feathers. Dirt shifts beneath his claws. There's something floral on the air, and the deep green of growing things.

The scents bring with them images, and bit by bit, he remembers.

Plants. Fruit. A garden.

 _The_ Garden.

The humans.

A tree.

An apple.

An angel.

 _Aziraphale_.

He remembers, and the shadows that had seemed so threatening just seconds ago settle into familiar shapes around him. He breathes out a sigh of relief, his claws and fangs melting away. He's not in Hell, and the Fall was a long long time ago. He's in his garden. He's home. He's safe. Which means the presence he'd felt was--

_Oh no._

He scrambles up to a sitting position, still a bit wobbly as he sorts out his current set of limbs-- arms, legs, wings. He folds the rest of himself away, then casts his senses out, seeking the angelic aura he knows so well. Between one heartbeat and the next he finds him, a soft light lingering at the edge of the garden, hesitant. Crowley swallows against a sudden burst of nausea at the thought that Aziraphale might be _scared_ of him.

But then Aziraphale is next to him, kneeling at his side, hands warm where they rest on his cheek, on his shoulder, worry shining bright in his eyes.

“Darling,” Aziraphale murmurs, “are you all right? Are you awake?”

“I. Y-yeah,” Crowley chokes out. He's not sure if he's _all right_ , but he can manage _awake._

“Oh, thank _goodness,”_ Aziraphale says, pulling Crowley close to wrap him in a tight embrace. “Oh, darling, I was so worried-- you scared me half to death! You were so frightened, and I couldn't _reach_ you, I didn't know _what_ to do...”

The angel tightens his grip, rocking him back and forth, and Crowley nuzzles into his shoulder, breathing in the warm sunlight-vanilla-cedar scent of him, anchoring himself. He's here, now, in the home they've made together, and his memories are just that-- memories. They can't touch him here, in the waking world.

Aziraphale is stroking his back now, long, smooth sweeps that soothe Crowley, and his eyes flutter half-closed, only to open again as he catches a whiff of a new scent. An iron-sharp tang he's all too familiar with, which has no place in this quiet moment.

Blood.

Crowley turns in Aziraphale's arms with serpent speed and snatches one of his wrists, peering closely at the angel's forearms. There are dark marks all along it, sharp lines matching the placement of his fingertips perfectly.

All at once he realizes what they are, remembers the give of flesh under his claws, and he drops the arm, plastering both hands over his mouth as horror rises in his throat.

He did that. He'd lashed out at what he'd thought was an enemy, and he'd- he'd hurt-

He'd hurt _Aziraphale_.

He tries to scramble back, sick with shame at the recognition of what he's done. The one thing he'd never, _never_ willingly do, and now he had. Aziraphale stops him, catching at his wrists, holding him in place with quiet strength.

“Crowley, Crowley, please,” he murmurs. “It's all right. It's all right, love.”

Crowley shakes his head furiously. “It's not. It's not all right. I _hurt_ you.”

“Shh, shh. It's fine. Love, it's fine. You didn't mean to.” Carefully, he lets Crowley go, looks down at the deep cuts, as if he'd already forgotten they were there. “Really, it's all right. It's nothing a little miracle won't fix.”

He flicks his wrist lightly, and the marks disappear, his arms once again smooth and whole. Still, the scent of blood sits heavy on Crowley's tongue. Aziraphale reaches out for him, trailing fingers along his cheekbone. “I'm fine, love, I promise. I'm much more concerned about you. I've never seen a nightmare so strong.” He tugs at Crowley's arm, pulling him in again, and Crowley goes, sighing as he curls up against the angel's chest, sinking into the steady heat of him.

Aziraphale is still talking, softer now, fingers combing through his hair. “The hold it had on you-- I couldn't reach you. Couldn't wake you. It was terrifying. And the way you looked at me-- it was like you'd never seen me before. You didn't know me at all.” He's quiet for a long moment, before admitting,voice barely a whisper, “I thought I'd lost you.”

Crowley shakes his head, curling his hands tight in Aziraphale's sleep shirt. All the fear has drained out of him now, and he lies limp, utterly exhausted. “'M alright,” he mutters. “'S a night terror. Haven't had one that strong in a long time.”

Aziraphale hums in sympathy. “Oh, darling, I'm sorry. The bookshop again?”

He hesitates, but... he won't lie to Aziraphale. “Nn. “S... Falling,” he whispers, turning his face away.

He hears Aziraphale gasp softly above him, but the angel doesn't pry further. He never does, whenever Crowley mentions the Fall. He could leave it there, and Aziraphale would let him. Crowley almost wants to. But... he'd _hurt_ Aziraphale, and even if the angel doesn't hold it against him, he wants to do _something,_ offer some small restitution. An explanation, if nothing else.

“S hard to describe,” he starts, stumbling on the words. “Everything jumbled. Just-- fear, and pain, and confusion. Didn't-- couldn't remember anything. Couldn't remember you, couldn't remember _me_.”

That had been the worst of it. Worse than the burning, even. The pain had been unimaginable, of course. The fear had left him shaking for ages with its aftershocks. But that was nothing to the total incoherence, the bewildering lack of _self_ that had come when his Grace had been lost, and taken his name with it. Even being called _Crawly_ had been better than that awful, empty void.

“'s the worst part,” he mumbles. “The undoing. Being just... nothing. No-one.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale breathes, tracing fingers over his brow, feather-light. “I'm so sorry, darling.”

“Mn,” Crowley hums. “'s a long time ago, now.”

“Still,” Aziraphale says. Then, softer, “Thank you. For telling me. You didn't have to. I know it's hard for you.” _Thinking about it. Talking about it. Remembering._

He's not wrong. But the truth of it is, it _was_ a long time ago. Most of the time, these days, Crowley really doesn't think much about it. Doesn't even regret it, if he's honest. He's not sure who that angel would have been, if he were still here, but... he wouldn't have been on Earth, with the humans and all their fascinating inventions. Wouldn't have his Bentley, or his garden.

Wouldn't have known Aziraphale.

He falls silent. He won't sleep again tonight, and Aziraphale seems to understand. He doesn't suggest they go back to bed, or even back inside. Just sits with him, leaning against the trunk of the apple tree, Crowley tucked against his side, a thick woolen blanket draped over them both.

It's one of the things he treasures most about Aziraphale, although he's never told the angel-- the feeling of safety he grants Crowley. The ability to just _relax_. To trust that someone has his back. Aziraphale loves him, and Aziraphale won't let any harm come to him. He doesn't need to watch for danger, to plan six steps ahead. He can just _be._ Just exist, now, in this moment.

Aziraphale's arms and aura are wrapped around him, and Crowley relaxes into it, lets it carry him like a tide. He feels the steady rise and fall of Aziraphale's breathing under his cheek, hears the soft night sounds of the garden around them.

They sit under the tree in their garden, and together they watch as the stars fade into dawn.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to write something about what the Fall might have been like for awhile, and then Kedreeva was talking about a post-Fall feral Crowley on the Ace Omens server, and this happened. Sorry, Crowley. (But hey, at least it was only a nightmare?) Also partly inspired by PeniG's fic involving [Crowley's encounter with St. Patrick.](https://www.ao3.org/works/20530262)
> 
> I love hearing what people think, so if you enjoyed, please leave a comment!


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